Snow.  Snow which I normally like, is pretty and fun to watch, especially when I don't have to shovel it or have to worry about working in it, or driving in it.  

I look out at it and remember the Blizzard with a capital B - the one that had the snow drift in our back yard up to the second floor window.  The one where we couldn't get out the back door.  The one where we worried about the tree in the driveway.  The one where we had to walk to Almacs and get welfare cheese.

Now there's no more welfare cheese, no more Almacs, no more tree in the driveway.  

I have yet to see a blizzard like that Blizzard.  


I'm tired of writing.  I don't know how people can do this for a living.  With 8 hours to kill, and 8 hours to write, how can people do it?  If it's something that's consistent, then yes, I can see how.  But because I'm sneaking these few minutes in between my real job, I can't concentrate on one story, one world, one idea, even.

I feel like things are fractured, bits and pieces here and there, scenes, parts of stories strewn about everywhere like a child's discarded toys.  I can't even gather up the gumption to gather them in the box, so I try to buy new toys, and end up with a bigger mess.

There's stuff here, on my blog, in my journal, in my head, on scraps of paper, and everywhere else, that the creativity doesn't flow, but leaks out of my ears.  I'm so afraid of repeating myself to people.  I'm so afraid that something that I've written somewhere will bore someone else.  I must keep things fresh and new.

I must buy new toys.


There was a point I had in mind when I first started this but I don't remember what it was.  It's not snow.  It's not what I wrote.  But this meditation went beyond my ken, and so what I wanted to know, like tarot cards, is what's most important.  

The End

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